


Pure Machinations

by Asphodel_glass



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Android x Human, Begging, Bionics, Deception, F/M, Fluff, Helplessness, POV Third Person, Plot Driven, Pre-Canon, Sex, Sexual Tension, Teasing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-16 14:21:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14813025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asphodel_glass/pseuds/Asphodel_glass
Summary: His mission is simple. Detain the subject. Eliminate the loose ends. As his interactions with his only lead intensifies, Connor realizes he doesn't have much confidence in the former. The latter - even less. Connor/OC. AU.***As reports of deviancy becomes short on the rise, Connor is tasked to discover the whereabouts of Abel Gabor, a former Cyberlife employee who could be conspiring against the very company that once found him pivotal to its success. And Connor’s only lead begins with the man’s niece. Little does he know that she’s much less cooperative than he initially thought.AU. Couple months prior to the events of the Detroit: Become Human.





	1. Chapter One: Initiate

**Author's Note:**

> AU. Couple months prior to the events of the Detroit: Become Human.

Ms. Gabor takes the 4PM bus every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday from Windsor to Midtown Detroit. After three weeks of observation, he concluded that this route would be an ongoing occurrence. 

 

Today, her attire consists of torn denim that reveals the skin of her left knee and a limp salmon pink sweater that sweeps to her mid thigh. She is clutching the strap of her saddle bag wrapped across her chest with one hand so tightly that the blood in her knuckles rise to the surface. She cradles two textbooks in her other arm. Spotting her in a crowd is easy.

 

As the bus whirs to a stop, Ms. Gabor rises from her seat and moves toward the scattered throng of passengers standing at the exit. The door slides open with a hiss and she’s the last to step out onto the bustling tenor of the strip.

 

Ms. Gabor’s eyes shift downward to her feet. She isn’t paying attention, she doesn't know she's being surveilled and he ensures she crosses only three paces before shoving into her shoulder. 

 

When Ms. Gabor grunts in surprise, he knows the impact is quite significant. 

 

The books slip out of the crook of her elbow and splash into a shallow puddle on the uneven concrete. 

 

It all but takes an instant for Panic to flood her face as she crouches to retrieve the fallen articles. It isn't until she gathers them in her arms does focus sharpens her eyes and finds him. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Ms. Gabor says. She is genuinely contrite despite the incident occurring due to no fault of her own. 

 

“No.” He shakes his head slightly, adjusting his worn jacket. “I ran into you.”

 

The smile she offers him is weak, half-hearted. Traces of distraught still pinch her face. 

 

His mind processes the feedback and initiates an algorithm that would absolve her discontent.

 

“I find it admirable that you still choose an outdated apparatus as your means of collecting information.”

 

She tilts her head slightly. A few strands of her black hair float across her forehead from the movement. She reminds him of an animal.  “Outdated apparatus?” she echoes.

 

“Your books,” he gestures at her arm. The sleeve of her sweater is dark with wet. 

 

“Who in the...I have never heard anyone call it that.” The corners of her mouth quirk downwards, incredulous, and instantly flatten into a straight line. “I don’t actually planto read them. They’re just gifts from my Uncle. He said they could be worth a lot of money one day. But, honestly - who would want soggy books?”

 

His program pauses and reconsiders. 

 

If it had been an accident, then maybe he would have truly felt obliged to reconcile for his misbehavior. As was an android’s duty to assuage human disappointment. But, jostling Ms. Gabor was purely deliberate. 

 

_ **_Express_Remorse_** _

 

“I'm really sorry. I should have been more careful,” he says.

 

Ms. Gabor shakes her head. 

 

“No, no, it's fine. Mistakes happen. There’s nothing you can do about it now. It's not like these things are worth a fortune anyway.”

 

His eyes travel to her arm. “Did you just see your Uncle?” 

 

“No…” There is a pause as she fumbles for a response. “I… I picked them up from... the mailing center.”

 

The nearest mailing center is three blocks away - within walking distance - but her face is largely devoid of any pretense and her body language gives no indication of nervousness. Though the probability of her lying is still fairly low, he can’t confirm the integrity of her answer.

 

Sensing that she wouldn’t speak further on the matter, he redirects the conversation. “Is there somewhere you have to be?” 

 

“I…” Ms. Gabor hesitates as she looks up. Her eyes flicker to the digital watch strapped on her wrist.  “I was heading home.”

 

She shuffles her feet as though preparing to leave. Her lips twitch with the oncomings of a sentence, but he interjects. 

 

“Then, is it possible for me to escort you back to your residence?”

 

When Ms. Gabor narrows her eyes,a pulse reverberates through the wires in his processor. 

 

_ **Evade_Suspicion** _

 

“It's the least I can do. I’d like to make up for my carelessness,” he explains and glances at the sky where sunlight gradually drains away. “And, given that nightfall is fast approaching, it would certainly make me feel better.”

 

The silence that ensues chiefly on her end doesn’t aggravate him. Patience is a virtue that, for him at least, is in great supply. So, he stays silent and waits until she makes up her mind. 

 

“Sure,” she shrugs, “why not?” 

 

His hand extends outward as his program activates the lips to stretch into a small smile. 

 

_ **_Amicable _ _**

 

“My name is Connor.”

 

Ms. Gabor studies the hand then lifts her head. She does not say anything immediately but her fingers that were tightly wound around her bag strap delicately slide into Connor’s palm. The temperature of her touch warms his artificial skin. 

 

“Hi Connor.” she says, “I'm Isla.”


	2. Chapter Two: Acquaint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I like to make weekly updates with this fic, but I depart for training tomorrow and will not return to my laptop until two weeks from now. Therefore, as a gift, I upload two chapters today to make up for my extended absence.

Detroit’s summers are warm, but the city cools rapidly during sundown. A breeze tousles the dark hair springing down Ms. Gabor’s back. As he detects the shiver in her shoulders, he wonders how she’ll fare on the remaining stretch to her apartment.

“How far away do you live?” Connor asks. Though he knows the answer - he knows a great deal about her - he can’t help his program from suggesting shorter routes to the destination.

He notices Ms. Gabor toss him a sideways glance through her lashes. “Are you having regrets about walking me home?” 

“Of course not.”

She turns her face to him. When her lips part, he expects her to make a comment. But, her mouth promptly closes and she looks away.

She doesn’t answer his question, but he refrains from pressing the topic. 

“The weekend is approaching. Do you have any plans?” he asks as an attempt to encourage discussion. He recalls that humans become nettled by the occurrence of “awkward silences.” Luckily, “small talk” was installed in his programming. 

“I’m usually visiting my family,” she murmurs.

“Like your uncle,” he provides. 

“You have a strange fascination with my uncle,” she adds, defensively. Borderline suspicion. His dialogue options become limited as he devises a counter.

“I appreciate anyone who still finds value in books,” he offers. “I believe if I ever had the chance to meet him, I’m sure I would find him intriguing.” 

Of course, he does intend to meet him. 

“Intriguing.” She repeats. “That’s a first. So…what about you? What do you do on the weekends?” she asks him.

“I typically…” His sentence fades as he deliberates his response. “Stay in and...sleep.” The shorter equivalent of “Returning to my recharging unit and resolving any potential errors incurred by my actions.” It isn’t an answer that humans could relate to. He's certain it wouldn’t have bode well with her either.

He flashes a smile but Ms. Gabor doesn’t reciprocate. Instead, she frowns. He is trying very hard to buy into her kindness, but his attempts are not producing favorable results. 

“That sounds really boring. Don’t you have family?”

Connor responds, “Yes, and I’m always surrounded by them.” That answer would be true if she were referring to family as a group of objects united by a significant shared characteristic. In that case, he could consider other inferior models as his relatives. 

He hears an approving hum and discovers that the sound originates from her throat.

She values family and he logs that. 

“That’s good.” Ms. Gabor nods, “It’s a nice feeling, isn’t it? To be with the ones you love,” she says. 

His LED, hidden under the band of his cover, winks to yellow as he replays her statement. He scours his mind for a response to the question.

**_Entry_Not_Found_**

Without any available data, Connor resigns to silence, but she doesn't seem to mind. 

Ms. Gabor turns into an alley, and though his sensors notify him that they are diverting away from her apartment, he follows her. 

“Are you sure this is the way?”

“I’m sure, Connor,” she utters his name for the first time. “This is a shortcut.” Their shadows begin to disappear, blending into asphalt. Ahead of them, there is a dead end, a steep brick wall stretching towards the the sky. Before he alerts Ms. Gabor, she distracts him.

“So, is there anything you like to do?” she asks off handedly. 

During his assembly, his likes and dislikes fell under the discretion of his programmers. They'd provided plenty of leeway in his script on what he would interpret as pleasing unlike previous models that would assent to every activity their owners would subject them to. But, he wasn’t designed for menial labor. He’d been told he was in service to a higher calling. In a sense, granting him more freedom would encourage more flexibility when accomplishing a task. 

And if he could name the most recent thing he liked, he would say he enjoyed hearing Ms. Gabor say his name in the same way humans did when someone uttered theirs. There is power in a name. It holds people accountable for their actions. It grants ownership. 

However, for some reason, he doesn’t find that appropriate to say, so instead he answers, “I take great pleasure in completing the tasks that are assigned to me.”

Ms. Gabor stops abruptly. She angles her body toward him. Her lips press into a firm line and the rest of her face hardens. 

The shift in her demeanor is drastic. 

“Is there a reason we’ve stopped?” He asks. 

The muscle at the corner of her jaw ticks. “Tasks you’re assigned, huh?”

Suddenly, she closes the distance between them and drives him against the wall. His system lags as he conjures several explanations for her aggression. Drawing her face closer to his, Ms. Gabor isolates him with her charcoal eyes. 

“You’re an android, aren’t you?”


	3. Chapter Three: Confront

Eyes are the windows to the soul. 

So when you have eyes, but you don't have a soul, what's there to see?

It's a questions which gnaws at her as she stares at the android’s face. 

so real, so human 

And Isla needs to remind herself that his eyes are visual prostheses made largely of silicon. 

Her mother’s eyes were also hazel. 

“I think you’re mistaken-” Connor starts. His voice has a cordial lilt and she refuses to be soothed by it. 

Isla takes her hand off his chest and knocks off his hat. 

At his temple, his LED flickers yellow. She had exposed him and his soft eyes widen a fraction. 

Connor attempts to step forward. “I can explain-”

Isla shoves him back to the brick wall and pins him there. “Shut. It.” 

She tells herself not to focus on his face. Not on the slope of his cheek bones. Not on the defined corner of his jaw. Not on his eyes. 

At the mention, her discipline wavers and she looks at him. The consequences of her actions afford her no mercy and she finds herself bounded by hazel. His eyes are so warmly familiar. From them, there comes an intensity and a gentleness that cuts her with memories that wound.

“I’m curious as to how you identified me.” His mouth is slightly ajar in awe, or what could be awe - because androids couldn’t possibly feel awe, they could only simulate it. “My programmers designed my mannerisms to mimic human behaviors in order to avoid detection.”

The statement clears her mind. 

Of course. How could she, even for a second, be fooled? This android is only an illusion of what people like her could never truly achieve in reality.

“You were a little too friendly,” she scoffs. “For a second, I thought you were flirting.”

“If you hadn’t discovered my identity, I’m certain my subsequent actions would have escalated to that.”

Her uncle had taught her to discern speech patterns between humans and androids. And the difference, she found, was stunningly obvious. Connor was doing so well too - dressed in normal clothes. If he hadn't opened his mouth, she wouldn't have questioned his disguise.

Her fingers curl into his sweatshirt. “You wish.”

Connor tilts his head to the left. “Androids don’t wish,” he retorts.

“Cut it, smartass. What do you want?” 

Before this, Isla has never aggressed an android. She didn’t see the point in it, just as much as she didn’t see the point in punching an inanimate object. After all, they're doing what people nowadays can't dare reduce themselves to. And you can’t hate a machine, you can’t hate something that’s not alive. 

She’s thought that for as long as she could remember. And, then, she meets Connor. 

Who is as different as any android she’s ever encountered. He isn’t manning a cash register, he isn’t serving her food, he isn’t picking up trash. Right now, she’s not sure if she hates him because he’s not making her life any easier. 

The android blinks and remains startlingly calm when answering. “I’d like to walk you home.” 

And he says this so nonchalantly, it almost makes her feel stupid. Like she’s the one overreacting. 

Isla suppresses a rude noise. “Isn’t your owner looking for you?”

“No.”

“So, what? You have a glitch?” Isla tests. Cyberlife had a strict policy about retaining lost androids. It was in her best interest to file a report to the DCPD immediately before an owner accused her of stealing. “Were you going to hurt me?”

“Am I defective? No. And to answer your second question - I believe you misunderstand my kind’s capacity for violence. We do not attack indiscriminately, unless we are provoked.” His eyes flicker downwards where her hand is firm against his solid chest, flitting back up shortly to meet her gaze.

By the time she catches the insinuation, Isla drops her arm to her side. Maybe it was a joke, but she's not taking chances. After she releases him, Connor steps forward. 

“Don’t come near me,” she warns. He obeys and doesn’t advance, but he’s still too close to her and Isla desires immediate distance.

Releasing a frustrated sigh, Isla tucks her books under her armpit and pivots on her heel in the direction out of the alleyway, taking an immediate left. 

Her stride remains constant for several yards. It isn’t until she hears a pair of footsteps that aren’t her own does she stop and whirl around. He stands about eight feet away and his hat sits atop his head once again, hiding the LED. When he stills, he looks at her with a face that is faultless. The sheer innocence of it almost disarms her.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asks.

“I’m maintaining my distance,” he replies. “I recall that you explicitly stated for me to not come near you. If you’re having difficulties remembering, I -”

“No,” Isla clarified, growing irate. “You are following me.”

“You consented to me taking you home,” he argues.

“Just go away.”

“I will...” Connor nods, “...once I’ve completed my mission.”

“God, leave me alone. Go!” Isla marches forward but she senses someone tailing her and she stops and turns again. 

Honestly, his insistence is making her nervous, and something unpleasant stirs at the base of her stomach. 

“Earth to lost robot: Go back home!” she yells. 

“Are you adverse to my offer now because you discovered I was an android? If you’re afraid that associating with me will give the authorities reason to detain you, I assure you it won’t come to that,” Connor says.

She’s never been chased by an android before, but this thought doesn’t cross her mind until she breaks into a sprint and makes a beeline across the street. 

Every corner she skirts around, she catches the blur of Connor’s silhouette close on her heels. He makes no sound at all. No haggard breaths. No heavy footfalls. He’s keeping speed. 

A few years ago, she was not a slow runner, in fact, she was a damned good one, but compared to the android she might as well be. 

She guesses she’s ran at least five blocks the moment her breaths come out in hot, uncontrolled spurts. With every footfall, a jarring pain shoots up into her knee and it hinders her speed considerably. Her body’s limitations have finally revealed itself, but she only comes to a stop when she reaches a dead end.

And just like that, she loses and the android didn’t even have to try. 

While the air fights against her lungs, igniting a trail of burn up her throat, Connor approaches her from behind. 

Then, he speaks. 

“You shouldn’t have run.” 

“Why can’t... you leave--- me alone?” she gasps, bending forward and bracing her hands on her knees. Consequently, the books fall to the ground but she’s too tired to care. The burn deep inside the center of her joint as well as in her throat almost becomes unbearable and Isla finds herself reaching out for the wall.

“Because, I haven’t completed my mission.”

His answer mocks her. She is almost convinced that someone put him up to this. 

She attempts to curse at him but the insults are lodged in her throat. As though contained in a box too small for it to expand, it's as though her right lung has stopped working. 

Which means no air pumping. 

Which means she's choking. 

It's not like she didn't see this coming from a mile away, or at least when she'd finally come to her senses and stopped running. But, panic and fear grip into Isla all the same. Oxygen has a new meaning to her now that she knows she's about to die without it. 

Losing the ability to stand straight, she collapses. Her legs crumble first, then the rest of her body follows suit. 

“Ms. Gabor?”

Everything will be alright. 

The world moves without her and a pressure on her back and an even greater force on her stomach, squeezes from her the remaining breaths she has. Then, her surroundings trickle away, and her consciousness submits to the tender caress of cool fingers pressed against her neck. 

Everything will be alright.


	4. Chapter Four: Pacify

Breathe.

 

The command is simple. 

 

And it leaves his mouth seamlessly. 

 

“ _ Breathe _ ,” he says. Perhaps, there is worry that creeps into his synthesizer. But, Connor can't fathom why. 

 

There’s a high possibility that she won’t die. 

 

The odds that she could yields a mortality rate of forty percent. 

 

Connor finds that favorable. 

 

Beneath his palm, Ms. Gabor’s heartbeat lengthens. 

 

“Breathe, Ms. Gabor.” 

 

He has never foreseen himself giving orders to a human. 

 

Somehow, he draws immense satisfaction from it.

 

When her chest rises shakily, the sound of an inhale as delicate as butterfly wings break past the barrier of her lips and flutters into his ears. Connor promptly removes his hands from the front of her damp sweater for several reasons - one of which is to avoid any accusations of indecency. Impulsively, he tugs down the hem to straighten out the wrinkles. 

 

“Are you well?” 

 

As she emerges from the fog of her daze, Ms. Gabor’s eyelids peel back slowly. Her attention is unfocused when she turns her head to his voice as though not registering his physical presence. She stares straight ahead and says nothing. Her speechlessness worries him because he’s unsure if she has suffered any significant head trauma from her fall. 

 

“What happened?” 

 

He can’t gauge the extent of her disorientation, but he dismisses the sudden bout of amnesia as minor. He actually prefers she didn’t recall the last ten minutes of their encounter.  

 

“What do you remember?” He asks.

 

At first, her mouth moves soundlessly, forming silent words. It’s a start and he strains to listen. 

 

“I was running,” she says, “from you. Because you wouldn't leave me alone.”

 

He's disappointed that she remembers so much, but it hardly shows on his face. 

 

“You collapsed,” he elaborates, “I performed a diagnostic on you and detected that your right lung was malfunctioning. Even though your left lung is perfectly capable of sustaining you,  your body isn't accustomed to relying on only one of your organs, so the situation required that I resuscitate you until your prosthetic onlined.” 

 

Her lips twitch into a frown. He knows she is upset, but it has nothing to do with him and everything to do with her disregard for her own safety. He prefers she felt guilty for acting so irrationally.

 

“Even though your artificial lung has stabilized for the time being, I suggest purchasing a replacement. There are many Cyberlife products that could accommodate you.” He pauses then adds, “On the bright side, I'm glad you're alive.”

 

When Ms. Gabor sits up with her knees tucked under her haunches, she finally eyes him. 

 

“I could've died,” she breathes. Shock laces her voice. This time, she regards him thoughtfully. Without measure and without bitterness. Her dark eyes, first cold, melt. 

 

“You saved me.”

 

_ **_Mission_Success_70%_**  _

 

At the center of his chest, there is a thrum and it throws off the beat of his biocomponent. The rhythm deepens into an ardent throb. 

 

_ **_Familiarize_** _

 

“May I ask you a personal question?” Connor asks.

 

Ms. Gabor eyes him with frank suspicion but nods, albeit reluctantly. 

 

“It is extremely rare for someone of your age to be dependent on prosthetics and I noticed that the issue date of your lung was June 16, 2032. What... happened?” he asks.

 

The cracks in her mind become visible on her face, he senses an air of panic. This must be what anguish looks like. 

 

“I was visiting my uncle when there was an explosion at his workshop. Shrapnel punctured my right lung and took away…” Ms. Gabor swallows thickly. When she starts again, her voice is brittle.  “-Everything below my knee.” 

 

His gaze skims down her left leg. He can’t obtain an ID on the prosthetic because the serial number isn’t listed in his database, but the mechanical limb is very much there.  

 

When he looks up, the remorse etched on her face makes him ruminate his next question. It’s not his intention to cause her distress however, at this point, his curiosity has become impossible. “Why did you run?” He asks.

 

“ _ Why _ ?” 

 

The venom in her tone burns into his memory. 

 

“Because you’re an android. Why else?” Her shoulders heave with emotion. Ms. Gabor refuses to look away even though the sight of him must be causing her distress. “You disgust me. All of you.”

 

He doesn’t say anything, because he can’t say anything. 

 

It wouldn’t further him.

 

Reasoning with anger is useless. And he can’t risk anymore words to worsen the situation.

 

Before she can make any rash decisions, Connor seizes both her wrists and drags Ms. Gabor to her feet. The movement is so fast she stumbles, steadying herself by gripping his sleeves. She didn’t expect it and he senses her hesitation. He could change his approach but he rather keep her guessing.

 

Connor yanks free of her grip and grabs her hand. He's acutely aware of the fragile pulse beneath his fingers which mirrors very much his own. When he walks, towing Ms. Gabor behind him, her heels dig into the ground. She struggles but he’s not hindered.

 

“Please let go of me.”

 

Connor stops and looks over his shoulder.

 

Her gaze is darting around on the ground - she doesn’t know where to put her eyes and he doesn’t think she’s composed enough to look at him without degenerating her sanity. 

 

“I still have to complete my mission,” he remarks, then he tugs her forward.

 

Ms. Gabor doesn’t oppose him.

 

He doesn’t desist. 

  
  



	5. Chapter Five: Bitter Departures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hand holding, book holding, and questionable convictions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the readers who have left kudos and positive feedback so far. I hope to keep this story rolling, and the support of you readers truly motivates me to continue writing. 
> 
> Yall are awesome!

His grip encircles her wrist like an iron shackle. Then, it crosses her mind that he’s made out of plastic...

 

They've turned onto the final block to her flat and he still holds her hand as she leads him much like a child.

 

Isla tries to reason why she’s so fucking disturbed.

 

_ You disgust me. All of you.  _

 

Perhaps, it’s the irony that seems the most cruel to her.

 

Discreetly, she tosses a glance in Connor’s direction. He walks on the left side of her, the side that’s open to the street. The books from her Uncle are in his arms - Connor assumed them himself. 

 

It’s not a magical moment. Isla loathes it. 

 

But, his rescuing her certainly weighs heavily on her conscience. 

 

She listened to the stories of android surgeons, firefighters, and security forces being a hero to somebody somewhere - and yes they're amazing. But,  it's even more moving when it hits closer to home. 

 

It occurred to her that he could be some new safety bot that Cyberlife hasn't announced yet. Something that just roams the streets and watches over people and randomly intervenes when someone decides to keel over.

 

Suddenly, Isla stops trying to justify his actions. 

 

“Why did you save me?” she asks.

 

“I wouldn't have let you die.”

 

“Is that part of your programming?”

 

She watches his side profile. A corner of his lip curves slightly. Coy. “To serve mankind? Of course.”

 

“What model are you?” She asks. 

 

“I'm part of the RK800 series.”

 

It doesn't ring any bells and she wonders if her uncle would have any insight. 

 

“Never heard of it.”

 

“That's understandable. I'm a prototype -  the final product of a perfected unit.”

 

Then what was he doing in the middle of Detroit? Briefly- and just briefly - she wonders how much he costs. Not that she’s interested in knocking him out and disposing him through the black market. 

 

Mindful of her next words, Isla opts to provoke.

 

“Perfected in what way? Because you literally failed to prove yourself human,” she says. “What makes  _ you  _ so different?” 

 

It's on the fringe of her vision, but Isla catches the smile on his face. Its different from the ones he's offered her before. This one is furtive. 

 

Could she have offended him? Can such a thing even exist in their code?

 

“I still require updates to my software every forty-eight hours,” he glances at her.” Aside from those shortcomings, I'm equipped with all the latest. I surpass every Cyberlife model on the market in that I think critically and with much more freedom.”

 

As they approach her flat, Isla comes to a stop. “And what does that do?” 

 

He’s a little delayed when he stops walking too, and he involuntarily tugs on her wrist. “Well,” he begins, “for one, I don't need permission to complete a task so as long as it furthers the progress of my mission.”

 

Elusive answers. ‘Complete a task’ could mean anything. Her curiosity sparks and she uses it to her advantage. Its giving her strength. “So, what is your mission?”

 

She's almost convinced that he's staring at her face. But, when she ticks her head, his gaze remains anchored on something behind her. 

 

“Is this your home?” he asks. 

 

Isla turns her head to the building, eyes trail up brick entry stairs to a chocolate door flanked by double vinyl windows on either side.

 

“That's the door to it - yeah....And-  _ Why _ are you still holding my hand?”

 

Connor looks at where he is gripping her wrist, then at her wordlessly. 

 

She frowns. “Let go of me.”

 

His fingers unfurl and the contact breaks, they’re no longer touching each other. The city air chills her exposed skin with a cool breath - she likes it, at least that’s what she tells herself. 

 

Warily, he examines his hand as though it's a separate entity. Isla merely shakes her head, before ascending the staircase. 

 

At the top step, she rummages through her bag for her keys. The search takes a considerable amount of time and she feels the tension of Connor’s stare on her back. 

 

“Do you need-” 

 

“I got it!” She snaps as she fishes out her keys and inserts one into the lock. Pushing past the threshold, she pales as Connor climbs the steps after her. 

 

“What are you doing?” 

 

The question halts him at the edge of the doorway and he extends his arm. He seems the least bit interested in entering, but the sudden proximity alarms her and she guards the front entrance with her body. 

 

“I believe you forgot something.”

 

Isla’s attention lands on her uncle’s texts balanced on Connor’s open palm. A corner of a page protrudes from the middle of a book. It’s much whiter than the adjoining sheets of paper in the volume. She notices this and as she spots Connor’s curious gaze, she knows he does too. 

 

Taking them from him, she inches back into the warmth of her house.

 

“I never want to see you again,” she says icily, but she doesn’t know if she truly means it. 

 

He saved her life.

 

Should she be grateful?

 

Would she be if he were human?

 

Despite the cold finality of her words, Connor’s face lights up. A tuft of bronze hair peeks out of his hat, swept aside off-center his forehead. She reminds herself that everything about him is an imitation of human nature. Everything about him is fake. 

 

No matter how real his plastic smile may seem to her.

 

“Have a good evening,” he says. 

 

Unable to tolerate another moment in his sight, Isla slams the door. As she leans her head against the sturdy redwood, she presses a hand to her ribs.

 

She questions the warmth rising there. 

 


End file.
